My Secret Insanity
by unique-starfish
Summary: How desperate is someone who longs for love from a painting? [AxM, AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** So I lied. I haven't lost interest in Rurouni Kenshin. I thought my next story would be in another anime. I was clearly wrong. Hopefully, you find this fic interesting, as it is different from what I usually write. I'm just trying my hand at different genres, and if no one likes this, please tell me so. Giving me your input will help me improve as an author—and help me decide whether this will be continued (and this probably won't be). Thanks!

**Disclaimer**: I think I have read a book about magical paintbrushes somewhere, so...if anyone knows a book that sounds horribly like this fic, please tell me! I don't own Rurouni Kenshin either!

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My Secret Insanity

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Chapter 1

_"I saw it there, clutched right in your tiny fist. I swear! That's how a found you, my baby, my darling Misao. You weren't crying. I saw your little curious eyes looking up at me, and I knew it then. You were special. Why? Because clutched right in your fist was a paintbrush. I tried to remove it, and finally, you cried. I have this funny feeling that you were born with it. Don't laugh! Why else would you care so much about it? Why else would a little baby cry for something it had no use for?"_

My mother always held this romantic vision that I was to be a great artist—an artist born with a paintbrush in her hand. She died soon after telling me this—after telling me that she wasn't my real mother, but instead, an abandoned, unwanted child left on a stranger's doorstep (and all that cliché stuff).

She left me here, to cope with this world, while she went off to a better one. They say it was suicide. No note. She gave no reason—not even a single word of apology.

If I were truly special, could she bear to leave me behind? Would she? What am I to her, if she couldn't bear to spend another day in life with me?

I now live with my grandfather—people call him Okina. He is kind to me, and provides me with everything I could possibly need. But it still feels different. I spend my time alone in my room most of the time, and I...paint.

It is true that I have had this paintbrush since I can remember. Whether I was born with it clutched in my hands is highly unlikely—the very idea probably even seems a bit corny. But what she said to me made me wonder.

Mother let me take up painting since I was old enough to know not to paint on things other than canvas. It seemed to her a very logical thing to allow me to do.

Anyways, I am skilled in creating highly accurate and life-like images. However, anything abstract is beyond me. Abstract art—though some say that it holds a higher reality—holds no reality for me. In other words, abstract art is the way the artist sees the world—so when you see a piece of Picasso's paintings, for example, you're seeing the world through his eyes.

I see things as they are. I don't see bright orange faces or triangle people. Perhaps, you could argue that Picasso really saw bright orange faces and triangle people, and maybe he believed that the world was truly like that. And, perhaps, my art really doesn't look real to you. But they look real to me. The reason? That is something that no human will ever know.

Why do we see the world differently? I find it so mysterious—perhaps even more mysterious than my mother's suicide.

* * *

I met him for the first time in my life shortly after my mother's death. I was sitting at the easel, hoping to paint away my anger with my special paintbrush—and that was when he was born. It was as if...as if I wasn't controlling my paint brush; it—he—just ...came into existence. I know, I know. It sounds cliché again, doesn't it? But that's truly how it feels when you create something that seems—that is—alive. 

That's how it feels every time I paint.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean creating in the sense that _I _made him—he created himself, spawned by my anger and by my love.

There is one thing you should know about me before I continue on. Everything that I paint is real—real in a sense that you may never experience. Each piece I paint is of this alternate universe—the same place that Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, and all artists try to depict, I believe. Perhaps that's 'the deeper meaning' in their art. I wonder what Van Gogh saw in his starry skies and dead sunflowers?

That world is as—or even more—diverse than our world. There is no limit to what species, land, or objects lay within its boundaries. And the most amazing thing is that...I never created any of it. I just _knew_.

However, no objects can be removed from this world, nor can its inhabitants enter. But somehow, I am able to interact with them. I visit it every time I paint.

I vaguely remember telling my mother about this when I was small. She wouldn't believe me. Ever since then, our relationship had changed. I'm surprised that I didn't notice it then—but I notice it now. She would gaze worriedly at me when she thought I wasn't watching. What had I done to cause her to worry? What had I done?

Even now I do not understand. But I digress. I fell in love with him, because I had poured all my love—all my passion—into him.

He comforted me with his icy firmness and control. His name? Aoshi. It evokes joy, love, and sadness in me every time I think about it—joy because of my love, love because of my sadness, and sadness because of my pain.

It always comes back to pain, no matter what the situation is. Why is that? I did not name him—he just _is_ Aoshi. I don't even know how I knew that. But he is always there, waiting for me when I need him. That's more than I can say for my mother.

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**Author's Note**: So now that I look back on this, it seems to be total, utter crap. Oh well. If you agree with me, do tell me! I have no experience in painting, nor do I know much about abstract art. I just guessed. :o) Anywho, this most like won't be finished/continued unless a lot of people like it (and if not, I will remove it). So make sure you tell me what you think! Thanks (and review)! 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Okay. So...I'm trying not to be a quitter here, so...it's the second chapter. To be completely honest, I have no idea where I'm going with this—I only have some vague idea for how it's going to end, but...I'm kind of bluffing my way through the middle! . Oh well. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin.

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My Secret Insanity

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Chapter 2

**_The _****_Kyoto_****_ Police Station_**

"So you're saying this girl has been missing for a week now?"

Using her shoulder and chin to pinch her cell phone in place, a middle-aged woman hurried down the stairs, balancing a fairly large stack of manila folders.

"Yes, yes, I _know_ you've been on it. And I _know _how long she has been missing. It just sounds longer when you say it that way.What case do you think it is? A runaway? Or a kidnapping?"

The woman nearly dropped the files. Luckily, someone else was also in the stairwell and was able to push the files back into her arms in time before they toppled down the stairs.

"Thanks—WHAT? You have NO IDEA? Did you search her room? Look through her things? You did? Then what did you find?"

Finding herself with barely any limbs to spare, the woman opted to kick the door open. The door flung open, leaving a permanent imprint in the wall. The woman examined it carelessly for a few moments before continuing on.

"Really? No signs of a struggle at all? And her grandfather says that nothing's missing in her room? Take a background check on her grandfather, by the way. You've been reading her journal—WHAT? What kind of nosy guy are you?"

She rushed through the office, heaving the files onto a random desk.

"File these please," she told the unfortunate worker who was peeking at her from behind the tower of folders. The worker gave her look of resentment before turning to stare hopelessly at the large pile of work.

"Yes, yes, I_ know _it's useful to know what was going on around her disappearance. It just sounds worse when you say it that way. Anyways, what did it say?"

The woman settled herself down at an empty desk, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and began jotting down notes.

"Likes to paint, thinks paintings are alive, Picasso...blah, blah, blah...fell in love with a painting guy named Aoshi...got it. WHAT? This girl sounds like a nut, if you ask me. Is that all she wrote? Oh, you haven't finished reading it yet. You really are nosy—and you're a bit of slow reader as well."

She took off her heels and examined her swollen toes.

"What was this girl's name again? Oh, right. Makimachi Misao. Did you find anything else? No? Well, I suggest you continue reading the journal then. You might find some important things in it. Don't forget to tell me what happens, okay? Okay. Take care. Yes. Yes. You too. Bye."

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Aoshi spoke to me for the first time about two nights ago. I know what you're thinking. You think I'm crazy, right? But he really did. I was telling him about my life, my hopes, and my dreams. This is the only way I can vent my anger now. Painting is no longer enough anymore. 

His reply did startle me, though I wasn't completely surprised. I have always known that my paintings were alive. The way he answered me was so simple, so charming. All he said was "Yes," but...this simple word seemed like a revelation to me. He was able to sympathize with my feelings and thoughts—and he did this all without wasting any words at all. I don't know. Maybe I am hopeless. But I guess I did set him up for success. Why? Well, when I talk, I tend to end my sentences with, "Do you know how it feels?" or "You know what I mean?"

And he told me he did—that he knew exactly how I felt and exactly what I meant.

I wanted to return this favor that he did for me. I wanted so much to sympathize with his feelings and to learn his story. I wanted to tell him, "Yes."

So I waited for him to speak to me again. He remained silent. I figured that the only way to find out about him was to ask him.

"So what's your story, Aoshi-sama?"

I waited. Finally, when I was just beginning to think that I had just imagined his "yes", he answered me. He told me about his life, his regrets, and his atonement for his regrets—without wasting a single word. This impresses me, as I do not have this skill.

Anyways, I learned that he knows nothing about his parents as well. Instead, he was raised by strangers who found him—like me, except I never thought of my mother as a stranger until her death. That was when I realized that I didn't really know her at all.

Aoshi had four great friends—I think their names were Beshimi, Hyottoko, Shikijo, and Hannya. Aoshi says that they followed him because no one else was willing to see them as human beings. What does he mean by this? I do not know, and I did not ask. Perhaps some day I shall.

Aoshi claims that they died only because of his foolishness—they died for his own worthless life.

I found that I was not able to tell him, "Yes, I understand," or "Yes, I know how you feel." Instead, I told him that I didn't understand. I told him that it seemed to me that his friends chose to die for him—they_ chose _to, which means that it has nothing to do with his foolishness—nothing to do with him, other than the fact that they're his friends. I told him that they only died for him because they thought that he was someone worth dying _for_. They didn't seem to think that his life was worthless, and neither did I.

Aoshi said nothing for a few moments, before telling me, "I don't expect you to understand."

Somehow, that broke my heart. I wanted so much to understand his feelings, but I couldn't understand why he blamed himself for so many things. If I told him that I understood, I would be confirming his belief that his life is worthless. And I didn't want to do that either.

That was the end of that conversation with Aoshi. I didn't know what else to tell him, and he didn't seem to feel like talking to me anymore.

Yet...I sometimes wish that I can touch him and feel the warmth emanating from his skin. I wonder if he feels the same way. I have never gotten the nerve to ask him (somehow, it feels as if he's angry at me for not understanding). Touching him is impossible, though.

We are in different dimensions, after all.

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**Author's Note**: So...I hope this chapter wasn't confusing. I wasn't sure how to make Misao's thoughts different from everything else that's taking place in Kyoto. Is there some special way that you would prefer me to arrange it? Please, if there is, do tell me! Thanks to everyone who reviewed—and please come back and review again! I know this chapter wasn't the best, so...tell me how to improve! 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: Hey! So, I'm just going to sit here, and...yeah. I'm probably going to keep this whole story pretty short—I might be ending it on the fifth or sixth chapter, depending on how fast I move with this. Actually...make that maybe ten chapters maximum...or twenty...because...I have been moving really slow (with the added on factor of the chapters being really short), and I don't know how I'm going to get to the ending that I want—you know? Probably not. Oh well.

**Disclaimer**: You know...if I owned Rurouni Kenshin, no one would be watching it anymore with how horrible the storyline would be going. So...I guess it's a good thing that I don't own it—for you, that is.

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My Secret Insanity

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Chapter 3

I remember a time that I couldn't stand silence. You know that thing called 'uncomfortable silence'? That's how all silence felt to me then. I could never tell the difference between any of the 'silences'. I'm serious! There are a lot of them—comfortable silence, companionable silence, thoughtful silence, happy silence—and the list goes on. Really, what's the difference?

If things got too quiet, I would try to make noise to break it. I remember singing (screaming) the song 'Edelweiss' at the top of my lungs as I stomped down the stairs. I didn't know all the words, nor did I ever bother to learn them. It drove my mother crazy. She enjoyed what she called 'quiet time'—and she happened to like 'Edelweiss'.

I guess I secretly feared silence, because it made everything seem so...sad. It gave me a feeling of hollowness and solitude—and I hated being alone. I couldn't bear being by myself. I think the reason I feared silence was because in my mind, I tied it directly to isolation.

The week after my mother's death was horrible for me. I had never experienced such painful silence before. I felt so lost and so alone. So I turned to painting to numb the pain.

Yet, somehow...now...I can stand it. Silence seems different, somehow. It seems more sacred than uncomfortable. How can my opinion change so quickly? I'm guessing that it's because I know that I'm no longer alone.

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**_The _****_Kyoto_****_ Police Station_**

"Hello?" a middle-aged woman snapped into the receiver.

She was in a bad mood. She had entrusted a worker that she had specially selected with painstaking precision—or, for lack of a better word, at random—with a load of manila folders full of important files. All she had asked was for them to be filed nicely. There were only, what, 768 folders to file, and of course the bumbling idiot couldn't get it right. She had arrived that morning to find the files shoved unceremoniously into one of her desk drawers. She nearly popped a blood vessel. What made things worse was that she couldn't even remember who she had given the files to, so there was no one and nothing to yell at other than her wall.

"Yes, yes. Wait. Who is this? Ah, Kaneshiro. You're working on the Makimachi case, right? Have you found anything?"

She gathered all 768 folders into her arms and set off to find another random desk to set them on.

"Oh, so you read more of her journal? What did it say?"

She hurried down the hallway, pausing only to glare at innocent passerby, in case they happened to be the idiot who had neglected his sacred duty of filing folders.

"She—wait, she _talked_ to a _painting_! She's nuts, I tell you. Have you even found this painting in her room yet? It should probably be there, since her grandfather said that nothing was missing in her room, right?"

Again, finding herself with no hands to spare, she kicked the door open. The doorknob slammed into the wall, deepening the imprint that she had created the last time someone had neglected their filing duty.

This time, she didn't even stop to examine it. Instead, she hurried past a row of empty cubicles (which, though they had been filled with occupants only seconds before, were oddly deserted at her arrival). There was one young girl remaining, however. She was obviously new, as she had no experience in the art of escape.

The woman smiled down at her and heaved the files onto her desk. "File these, please," she said, and watched with satisfaction as she saw the young girl's forehead redden (which was only just visible over the pile of folders).

She made sure to get a good look at this girl's face before continuing on.

"You haven't found the painting? WHAT? Then...how...wait, did you ask her grandfather about this painting yet? You did? What did he say?"

Sitting back down at her desk, she shifted papers and documents around until she found a blank sheet.

"WHAT? He didn't even _know_ about it? He hasn't seen or heard of this painting that his granddaughter was obviously _obsessed_ with? But how can this be? Was he close to his granddaughter? Did they talk often?"

Her pen hovered over the paper for a few seconds before she finally decided that taking notes on this was not necessary.

"So he said that after she moved into his house, she barely ever said a word? But...at her school...she _had _to have had some form of a social life. No? She had no friends? She did? Oh, before her mother's death. What was her name? Kamiya Kaoru? Right. Did you question her?"

The woman crumpled the blank sheet of paper into a ball, aimed for a trash bin, and threw it. It sailed across the room and landed quite far away from its goal.

"Oh. She stopped talking to her after her mother's death. So no one really knew what was going on with her, right? It's pretty obvious after you read her journal though. She's not quite right in the head."

She tilted back into her chair and placed her feet on her desk.

"I remember her grandfather saying that she rarely ever left her room. He knew very little of what going on in there because she always locked it. Isn't that what he said?"

She examined her fingernails.

"Right. This case isn't really going anywhere, though, is it? The only clue that we have is this journal of hers—and I'm not so sure that she's that reliable of a source. I mean, how do we know if this painting even exists? It isn't in her room, right? I still don't know what to think. Somehow I don't think this case is a runaway or a kidnapping."

The woman rose out of her chair and picked up the crumpled piece of paper.

"Well...you take care. Read more of that journal! Okay. Bye."

* * *

I find myself spending hours upon hours staring into his face. The time passes by unnoticed, and I am only vaguely aware of who I am and where I am. All I know during this time is that...I love him. I love him so much. Yet...since that day, he has not spoken to me once—not one word. Is he angry at me?

During this 'quiet time', hardly a thought passes through my mind. But there always is the occasional "_If only..._"

I only become conscious of my surroundings when I hear Jiya knocking worriedly on my locked door. Sometimes, I feel guilty when I realize how much I make him worry. But then I see Aoshi again, and all thoughts leave my head.

I have come to like the quiet solitude of my room. I finally understand why silence was so important to my mother. It gives me time to think about things, and it helps me pass hours at a time.

Now that I think back, I can't even remember how 'Edelweiss' sounds anymore. It was one of the few ways that I could fight the silence, but now, even that has escaped me. No matter.

I am no longer afraid of silence—because I am no longer alone.

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**Author's Note**: I didn't get much further in this, did I? Who knows how long this fic is going to be anyway? Do you even care? No? Okay. Thanks to all who reviewed—and...I would like it if you reviewed again! I want to improve! O.O 


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